


Back to Where We Once Belonged

by AmyPond45



Series: Sam’s Magic Time Closet [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangel possession PTSD, M/M, Multiple Sams, Post Season 13, Season/Series 14, Time Travel, magic bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: Ever since they got back from Apocalypse World, Sam and Dean have lived a quiet domestic life in the bunker, just the two of them. It’s been a good life, overall. Until the day Sam’s magic time-closet malfunctions, spitting out Sams from other timelines at the rate of one an hour. Luckily, Sam’s become exceptionally well-versed in the bunker’s archive of magic, and it doesn’t take long before he finds a spell that should restore the natural order. Unfortunately, what they find when they fix things isn’t quite what they bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a total crack fic. Watching Dean’s reaction to the bunker being overrun by strangers in 14x3, I couldn’t help wondering how Dean would react if they were all Sam. This is the final fic in my series about a magic time-travel closet in Sam’s bedroom. It’s not necessary to read the rest of those stories to make sense of this one; all you need to know is that Sam found the closet shortly after they moved into the bunker and has been using it to travel back in time to visit and observe the past. Many thanks to my beta, [jld71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71/pseuds/Jld71). Also so many, many thanks to [winchesterchola](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com/) for her amazing art (which you can find [here](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com/tagged/belonged) \- go give her some love!) Working with you is always the greatest of pleasures, bb! Last but never least, thanks to the comm mods for making this challenge possible. It’s been a fantastic ride!

**//**//**

He should have burned the thing.

Too late now, Dean thinks as Sammy Number Five staggers into the bunker’s library, as confused and disoriented as the first three.

This one looks young, maybe 18 or so, definitely younger than the others. He’s still got a few teenage pimples on his smooth cheeks, and his bangs won’t stay out of his eyes, no matter how he tosses his head in that youthful, coltish way he used to do.

Sammy Five does a double-take when he sees the other Sams. They barely acknowledge him; they’re a little busy, researching a way to stop this latest (and weirdest) thing from continuing to happen.

When the kid sees Dean, his eyes widen, then he frowns, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He slides his hand into the back waistband of his jeans, where he keeps his Taurus tucked, and Dean puts a hand up.

“Hey, Sammy. Whoa there, tiger. You’re safe. It’s really me.”

Sammy Five freezes, his eyes flickering away from Dean nervously as his hands reappear, empty. He shifts from foot to foot, unsure if he should raise his hands in surrender or make a run for it. Dean can read this kid like a book.

“And these dudes are all you, from different timelines,” Dean goes on, nodding at the other Sams. The one standing by the bookcase with an open book in his hand looks up and nods a grim greeting. Sammy Number One, Dean thinks. _His_ Sam. The one from _this_ time.

“We’ve had a little time travel malfunction,” Dean explains. “You guys have been coming through at the rate of about one an hour all day. I keep telling them we should burn the thing...”

“Dean.” Sammy Number Three rolls his eyes. Post-Purgatory Sam. He looks like he’s about thirty, from that year after Dean was in Purgatory. His hair is as long as it’s ever been, and he keeps giving Dean guilty looks every few minutes. “We already nixed that idea, remember?”

“Yeah,” Mystery Spot Sam chimes in. He was the first one to come through the time-closet in Sam’s bedroom, and he’s obviously from that horrible period just before Dean went to Hell. He keeps touching Dean, like he’s afraid he’s about to disappear. Or as if he can’t quite believe he’s still alive. “If we do that, how are we going to get back?”

“Oh, and you _want_ to go back, do you? You want to see what happens next? ‘Cause I can promise you, it ain’t pretty.”

“Dean!” Sammy Four snaps. He’s from the time just after Kevin died, when the Dean in his time made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He’s pissed, can’t even look at Dean without anger in his eyes. Dean thinks of him as “Not-Gadreel Sam.” “We have to fix this. If we don’t, this –– “ he waves his hand around the room, glances at Sammy One before he glares at Dean again. “None of this will happen. This future will cease to exist. And I can already see, things are better here than they are in my time.”

“Yeah, they are,” Dean breathes. He still feels the old twinge of guilt for shoving an angel into his brother all those years ago. He’ll probably never get over it.

“So let’s fix this,” Not-Gadreel Sam barks, pulling another book off a shelf and turning his back to Dean.

“What _is_ this place?” Sammy Five asks, tossing his hair out of his eyes as he stares around the bunker curiously.

“Better for you if you don’t know too much,” Not-Gadreel Sam grumbles.

“No, it’s okay,” Sammy One says. “I’ve got a spell that’ll wipe his memories just before he goes back. He won’t remember a thing about this place.”

“A spell?” Mystery Spot Sam looks worried. “You’re doing magic now?” 

Dean can see his big brain working. _Maybe there’s a way to save Dean here,_ he’s thinking. Dean knows him.

“I dabble a little,” Sammy One says modestly. Dean snickers.

“Anybody hungry?” Dean claps his hands, raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Cuz I’m starving.”

Post-Purgatory Sam rolls his eyes. “Same old Dean, I see.” But he’s the one who follows Dean into the kitchen.

As Dean pulls eggs and bacon and orange juice out of the icebox, Post-Purgatory Sam finds the griddle and some plates, pours himself a glass of juice.

“So, you’re not mad at me anymore,” he comments. His tone is tentative, hopeful, but also challenging.

Dean glances at him as he turns on the griddle, gets out a bowl for the pancake batter.

“That was a long time ago for me,” he says. “Water under the bridge.”

Post-Purgatory Sam huffs out a breath. “You were pretty mad.”

Dean shrugs. “And now I’m not,” he says, cracking eggs into the bowl. “Time heals all wounds, Sammy. You know that.”

“Or I did something to atone for what I did,” post-Purgatory Sam suggests.

Dean thinks about the Trials, thinks about how sick Sam was, how determined to do them even if they killed him.

“Water under the bridge, Sam,” Dean growls again. “Just let it go.”

“Huh,” Post-Purgatory Sam nods. He’s got his answer, knows he’s about to make some horrible choice to atone for giving up when Dean went to Purgatory.

It makes Dean sick to think about.

This whole thing is making Dean sick. Revisiting the past this way, with all of these different versions of Sam in their home at once, it’s almost worse than spending forty years in Hell. Most of the time, Dean can go day to day without thinking about the mistakes he’s made. Most of the time, he doesn’t have to face the choices that got their friends killed, the mistakes that sent Sam into the Cage with Lucifer riding him. He’ll never make up for those choices, so it’s easier to forget about them. He suspects Sam feels the same way. Some things should never be dredged up, never discussed. It’s how they’ve survived this long.

One thing’s for sure. After they send all of these Sams back where they belong, they’re burning that damn time closet.

“Smells good in here.” Mystery Spot Sam shuffles into the kitchen, eyes seeking out Dean in that needy way Dean remembers from that period before he went to Hell. It gives Dean the creeps.

“Sit down, Sam,” Dean tells him.

Both Sams obey immediately, bumping shoulders in their haste. They flinch away, startled, as if they’d forgotten there were two of them in the room, and when they sit down on opposite sides of the table they frown warily at each other.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“You two should have a lot to talk about,” he says as he spoons scrambled eggs onto their plates. “I died for both of you. You can compare guilt trips.”

“You died at least 100 times for me,” Mystery Spot Sam corrects. “Broward County, remember?”

Dean shakes his head. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, kid, if you think Florida was tough. And no, I don’t remember, thanks to Gabriel. Nice of him to make sure _you_ never forgot, though. Dick.”

He slams the empty pan onto the stove, suddenly angry. Sam always had it worse. Sam’s suffering was always longer and more intense than Dean’s, in practically every timeline. It’s unfair. Dean would trade places with any one of these Sams if he could save them some pain.

“But you survived in the end,” Mystery Spot Sam says as Not-Gadreel Sam digs into his plate of food. “That means there’s hope for my Dean.”

“Oh, you think me going to Hell is the worst thing that happens to us?” Dean wipes his hands on a dishtowel, flings it onto the counter next to the sink. “Cuz it happened, Sam. It happened. But that was only the beginning.”

Mystery Spot Sam blinks at him, and Dean can see the desperation in his hazel eyes, hope dying as Dean’s words sink in.

“Dean,” Post-Purgatory Sam reprimands softly. “Don’t.”

“And you,” Dean snarls at the older, longer-haired Sam. “You think not saving me from Purgatory was the worst mistake you ever made? Because I can promise you, we’ve done worse. The way I yelled at you for giving up after what I did while you were in the Cage with Lucifer… That was worse. After what happened to you, I had no right. I should have been on my knees begging you to forgive me for that, and instead, all I could do was yell at you for giving up hunting and not looking for me.”

“Dean...” Post-Purgatory Sam looks devastated.

“I was an ass, Sam,” Dean goes on. “And things only got worse. I thought I couldn’t live without you when you were dying, so I made the worst mistake of my life. The worst! There’s no forgiving that one, I can promise you that. You think I’m lying? Ask Not-Gadreel in there. Go ahead! Ask him!”

“Dean,” Post-Purgatory Sam tries again, but Dean interrupts, shaking his head sharply as he heads toward the door.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters angrily. “I’ll be in the firing range if you need me.”

**//**//**

Dean’s on his fifth round when he catches a glimpse of young Stanford-era Sam hovering on the edge of his peripheral vision. He lets the kid stand there for a minute or two as he finishes the round, hitting the bullseye every time. Then he locks the safety back on his empty gun and puts it down on the ledge in front of him.

“Heya, Sammy.”

“Hey.” Stanford-Sam shuffles awkwardly, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing the hoodie Dean remembers so well from those days. Dean figured the kid lived in that thing, probably slept in it.

It makes him look young and vulnerable, despite his height. He’s just starting to grow into his muscles, the gawky boy he used to be still prominent.

He’s adorable. He brings out all of Dean’s protective instincts. Dean would love to take this kid and hide him somewhere safe, keep him from ever finding out what’s in store for him. Stop it all from happening.

“You wanna shoot some rounds?” Dean offers.

“Nah, I’m good,” Stanford-Sam says with a shrug.

Dean nods. “You want a tour of the bunker?”

Anything to avoid going back to the library.

Stanford-Sam’s smile is positively blinding. Dean had forgotten how devastating young Sam’s smiles could be.

“That would be great.”

Dean nods. “Well, this is the shooting range. Obviously. And over here, through that door, is our gym.”

He brushes past Stanford-Sam to pull the door open, trying to ignore the whiff of something sweet and familiar. Stanford-Sam’s been eating candy. Sam always ate candy at this age. The sugar helped him concentrate. He didn’t like coffee back then, and Dean didn’t like him drinking it for fear the caffeine would stunt his growth.

As if.

So Sam ate candy instead to help him stay awake while he studied.

“What?” Stanford-Sam asks curiously in response to Dean’s faraway smile.

“What? Oh nothing. I just remember how much you loved those gummy candies. What were they called? Gummy Worms?”

Stanford-Sam flushes. “I don’t eat those anymore?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “You’re a coffee-drinker now, same as me. Coffee to wake up, whiskey to wind down. We pretty much share all our poisons these days.”

Stanford-Sam wrinkles his nose. “Whiskey. Yuck.”

Dean chuckles. “Give it a few years, Sammy. Give it a few years.”

Dean leads the way into the garage, tries not to look too pleased as Stanford-Sam recognizes his baby.

“Wow! Dad gave you the car?” Stanford-Sam runs his hands along the hood and up over the roof.

“Just after you left for college, yeah.” Dean raises an eyebrow as Stanford-Sam bends to look inside the car. “When exactly are you from, anyway?”

“Two-thousand-two,” Stanford-Sam says. “First week of February.”

Just after Dean’s twenty-third birthday. Sam had drunk-dialed and hung up five times that night. The last time, he breathed heavily into the phone until Dean told him to hang up and go to sleep. He knows exactly how much Sam was missing him, because he had felt the same way. Torn apart from the inside out, holding on by a thread.

“I always thought Dad gave me the car as a consolation prize for losing you,” Dean says. It’s easy to be honest after all the years that have passed and everything they’ve been through. “Now that I think about it, he probably meant it as a consolation prize for losing both of us.”

“But didn’t you and Dad keep hunting together after I left?”

“Not much.” Dean shrugs. “Dad was always kind of a lone wolf, remember? He didn’t work so well with others.”

Stanford-Sam stares at him, stunned. “You were alone? You hunted by yourself?”

“Nah.” Dean huffs out a laugh, knocking his shoulder into Stanford-Sam’s to wipe that look off his face. “I knew plenty of hunters. I wasn’t stupid, Sam. I knew better than to hunt alone, most of the time.”

Stanford-Sam’s clearly horrified. He doesn’t believe Dean. He always assumed Dean would become their dad’s hunting partner. Dean knows that’s what Sam thought because he’d told him so. Sam always figured he was the one making his way all by himself in the world. Sam always figured _he_ was missing Dean way more than Dean was missing _him_.

It’s how Sam justified staying away for so long without calling. He always figured Dean preferred it that way.

“Doesn’t matter now, anyway,” Dean reminds him. “As you can see, we’re together now. These days it’s just you, me, and Baby, doing what we do, same as it’s always been.”

“Dad’s gone,” Stanford-Sam says softly, shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Yeah. He’s been gone a few years now.”

Stanford-Sam’s eyes fill with tears and his lips tremble. He nods. “How— How did it happen?”

“Died doing what he loved,” Dean says, fighting a sudden wave of grief. Seeing Sam like this, still so young and unaware, takes Dean back to that time before, makes it seem fresh again. “Went down fighting the good fight, like he always said he would.”

This young version of Sam doesn’t need to know the details. He doesn’t need to know that their dad sold his soul to save Dean’s life. He doesn’t need to know about their dad’s final words to Dean.

It’s all so long ago now.

“Come on,” Dean smiles and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll show you the dungeon.”

“You have a dungeon?” Stanford-Sam wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and tries to laugh.

“Kept the King of Hell captive there for the better part of a year, once,” Dean brags. He pats Stanford-Sam on the back as he guides the kid out of the garage.

They run into Sammy One in the corridor. “Found a spell,” he says, frowning at Stanford-Sam’s flushed cheeks and reddened eyes. He raises an eyebrow at his brother, who shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“Oh goody. More magic.” Dean thinks for exactly one second about returning to the library, then turns and heads back down the stairs to the garage. “I’ll just be down here if you need me.”

“Dean, we need you,” Sammy One calls after him. “The spell calls for the blood of the next of kin. Pretty sure that means _you_.”

Dean throws his hands up in defeat. He knew his being gone while the Sammies did their research was too good to last.

With a deep, put-upon sigh, he turns and reluctantly follows the two Sams up the stairs.

**//**//**

“Our working theory is that the time closet is acting as a conduit for each of us to try to solve various crises at different times in our lives,” Sammy One explains.

“That makes sense.” Not-Gadreel Sam nods. “From what you’ve told us, that’s what it always does.”

“Right.” Sammy One says. “But in the past, it only sent through one of you — one of me — at a time. Obviously, something’s not right. And I think I know what it is.”

Dean glances around the table. The original four extra Sammys have been joined by two more, and Dean can be forgiven if he flinches when they meet his eyes. One of them is probably from that period when he was a demon, if the desperate look in his eyes is any indication. The other one makes Dean remember that period of their lives just before Sam killed Lilith. He looks guilty and defiant at the same time, and Dean wants to grab him and shake him, hold him down so he can’t go through with the terrible thing he’s about to do.

Dean would travel back through time and save Sam from the Cage in a heartbeat, if he could.

But apparently that had never been an option. The time closet belonged to Sam, and apparently only Sam could use it. Or overuse it, as was the case now.

“You think _this_ time isn’t right,” Not-Gadreel Sam suggests, obviously following Sammy One’s train of thought better than Dean could. Obviously not as distracted as Dean is by the overabundance of Sam in the room. “The closet’s trying to fix the timeline the only way it knows how.”

“By making it clear there’s a problem,” Post-Purgatory Sam chimes in. “So we’ll be forced to fix it.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean interrupts. “Are you saying that thing is malfunctioning _on purpose?_ It’s spitting out all of you at once just to get our attention? Why?”

He stares around the room at the identical faces, all but one looking back at him with that slightly fond, slightly condescending expression Sam gets when Dean’s being dense.

Not-Gadreel Sam stares at the floor, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He’s got no patience for Dean right now.

“Something’s wrong with this timeline, Dean,” Sammy One explains. He’s being gentle, like he’s feeling sorry for Dean for not understanding. “What’s happening now isn’t supposed to happen.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious!” Dean huffs. “You’re not all supposed to be _here,_ in this room, at the same time, being bigger pains in my ass than usual!”

“No, it’s more than that,” Post-Purgatory Sam says. “What he means is, you — and him — you’re not supposed to be here.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I _live_ here!” Dean glares, furious because he really doesn’t understand. This whole thing is annoying, confusing, and downright infuriating. He definitely needs a drink.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Not-Gadreel Sam says sharply. “You don’t know. The point is, this timeline is wrong, and we have to fix it before it goes even further off course.”

Dean thinks about that for a moment, then it hits him. “It’s something we did, isn’t it? One of the Sams we brought here from the past went back with knowledge he wasn’t supposed to have.”

Sammy One looks dubious. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe when I used it to travel back in time I changed something. We’ll never know. If we fix it, we won’t remember.”

Dean stares around the room, considering how each Sam is frozen in a moment in time when things could have gone very differently. If he could, Dean would do anything to prevent each of them from going through the suffering headed their way. But he can’t save them all. It makes every bone in his body hurt to admit it, but he knows he can’t save them all.

“Okay.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

“Dean, if this works, then this reality ceases to exist.” Mystery Spot Sam says. He’s clearly worried.

“Yeah? But that means you all go home, right?”

“Well, yes,” Mystery Spot Sam admits. “But you’re _here,_ in this timeline. You survived Hell. And I don’t need to know the details; it’s just enough to know you survived. But what if — in the other reality — What if you didn’t make it?”

Dean exchanges knowing glances with Sammys One, Three, Six and Seven.

Not-Gadreel Sam rolls his eyes.

“He survives in any timeline,” he growls angrily. “It’s all predestined, goes way back to Cain and Abel. ‘Dean Winchester must be saved.’ So don’t worry. Dean’s existence — and yours — doesn’t end when he goes to Hell.”

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” Stanford-Sam asks, wide-eyed, freaked out by all of this.

“Never mind, college boy,” Dean says, giving his voice the authority and reassurance that usually works on most Sammys. “They know what they’re doing. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

“Liar,” Not-Gadreel Sam mutters.

“All right, that’s enough!” Sammy One admonishes. “We need to do this spell before another me comes crashing through that time closet. We’ve been off the timeline long enough as it is.”

Sammy One and Not-Gadreel Sam have assembled the ingredients for the spell with help from Sammy Six, Demon-Dean Sam, who keeps casting wounded glances Dean’s way. He’s thin and haggard, arm in a sling, and Dean feels guilty just looking at him.

He grabs a knife, checks the sharpness with his thumb, then lays the edge of the blade against the tender underside of his forearm. There are several paper-thin scars there, just like the one he’s about to make for this spell.

“Okay. Let me know how much and when.”

Sammy One holds out the silver spell cup. Dean can see sage and rosemary and what looks like bird bones in the bottom of the cup.

“Baby lizard embryos,” Sammy One corrects, as if he can read Dean’s mind. “Still in the shell. Found ‘em in your ‘Gross Stuff’ drawer.”

“Of course you did,” Dean growls, holding his arm over the cup to wait for his brother’s signal.

There’s a moment when their eyes meet, when Dean notes the emotion there, all of Sam’s personal fear that things will change irrevocably after this. Sam fears that Dean won’t be the same, that when they fix the timeline he’ll be a different man. Still Sam’s brother, but not. Sam fears his own tenuous hold on reality.

“Stone number one, Sam,” Dean murmurs. “Stone number one.”

Sam nods and clenches his jaw. “Right. Let’s do this,” he says, echoing Dean’s words as he squares his shoulders.

Nothing happens when the first drop of blood hits the other ingredients, nor the second, nor the third drop. Dean clenches his fist, making himself bleed faster before the wound closes. But it’s not until Dean’s bled seven drops of blood into the bowl, one for each Sam in the room, that something happens.

Dean’s about ready to give up. He’s feeling slightly nauseous and more than a little tired, day-dreaming about locking himself in his room for the night while the place gets overrun with Sammys because this is clearly _not_ working...

Then the lights flicker and dim. Dean looks up from the bowl as the air in the room suddenly seems thinner, like that time Ketch locked them in to die. He catches Sam’s gaze, realizes that he’s been chanting under his breath the whole time but now he’s stopped. Now he’s staring back at Dean with a shocked expression.

“Dean! You’re fading!”

Sam’s voice sounds far away, as if it’s coming from down at the other end of a long tunnel. The room gets dimmer, so that when Dean glances around he can barely make out the faces of the other Sams, all gathered in a circle around him. Dean’s heart pounds and sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. He’s dizzy and having trouble breathing, sure he’s about to pass out. His arm throbs.

“Sam!”

Just before he passes out, he hears the Sams calling out to him in various tones of distress. Even Not-Gadreel Sam looks worried, and Dean’s just enough of a dick to get a little satisfaction from that, although he’s flooded with guilt at the same time, of course, since that’s just the way he’s made.

Then everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**//**//**

“Dean? Dean!”

Somebody’s shaking his shoulder. As Dean crawls back to consciousness he notices two things: his head hurts, and he’s naked.

Must’ve been a helluva night.

The “somebody” better not be Sam.

“Let me sleep!” he slurs angrily, burrowing down into his bed — 

He’s in his bed. He’s been sleeping. Dreaming.

“Dean, it worked! The spell worked!”

Not dreaming, then.

He slides one sleep-crusted eye open and quickly closes it again.

Sam’s naked, too.

“And I guess the memory spell worked, too?” Sam asks, but Dean knows that tone. Sam’s not really asking, he’s just talking to himself, like he does when he’s working through a problem.

Like waking up naked in bed with your brother.

Dean’s grateful he’s lying face down because he’s got a morning wood, and seeing Sam naked isn’t doing a thing to make it go away. If anything, it’s making him harder.

“All I know is, somebody better make me coffee,” Dean growls. “Soon. I don’t know what we were drinking, but if it made us get naked and fall asleep in my bed together, it needs to go.”

“You don’t remember?” Sam sounds worried. “Seriously? Dean, you don’t remember the other timeline? The –– the Multiple Me Convention?”

Shit. Not a dream.

Dean’s awake now, eyes wide as he lifts his head, spies his discarded jeans and t-shirt on the floor beside the bed. Mustering the strength and energy he definitely doesn’t feel, he rolls off the bed and grabs the clothes in one smooth motion, landing on his feet facing Sam, the clothes held strategically in front of him.

Sam looks far too comfortable — far too familiar — stretched out on Dean’s bed with only a thin sheet covering his own no-doubt impressive morning wood. Dean looks away, forces himself to dress while ignoring the fact that Sam’s watching him as he does it. Ignoring the fact that it turns Dean on, knowing that Sam’s watching.

“Dean?”

Sam sounds so concerned, so _Sam_. Dean almost drops his t-shirt, almost climbs back onto the bed with his brother to reassure him that everything’s all right. Whatever Dean remembers doesn’t really matter, does it? If this is something Sam wants, something Sam expects, then Dean should just give it to him, shouldn’t he?

He’s losing his mind. This can’t be happening. Things never got this weird in that other timeline, did they?

“I gotta pee,” Dean growls. “You might wanna get dressed before I get back.”

Dean tries to ignore the distress in Sam’s face as he leaves the room, but he can’t. He’s worried, too. His memories are a jumble, his head pounds, and he’s barefoot, for God’s sake.

The hall is full of voices. The bunker’s full of people.

Dean stumbles down the corridor to the bathroom, passing two men who look vaguely familiar. They exchange brief greetings with Dean like they know him, and Dean has the presence of mind not to kill them because he’s pretty sure they’re supposed to be here.

“The bunker’s full of strangers!” He exclaims as soon as he gets back to his room.

Sam’s pulled on his clothes, even his boots and over-shirt, the bitch. He still looks hot. He’s sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, hands clasped loosely in his lap, looking lost and troubled. Everything about his brother’s demeanor brings out Dean’s protective instincts.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “Those are all the hunters from the alternate universe, remember? They’ve been living here while you were gone.”

“Gone?” Dean’s head throbs. “What are you talking about, gone?”

“While you were possessed by Michael.” Sam winces as he says it, can’t quite look Dean in the eye.

“By Michael? I said yes to Michael?”

But Dean remembers. It’s like a bad dream, one he had last week so he’s almost forgotten it now.

“Yeah. You were gone a few weeks,” Sam says. “You really don’t remember?”

“I remember,” Dean admits, sinking into the chair opposite his brother so that their knees brush, giving Dean that little buzz of erotic energy he’s been getting from Sam all his adult life. Only he’s pretty sure that in this timeline he wasn’t conscious of it, or of how much he needed it. And he’s pretty sure they never acted on it. “What I’m having trouble remembering is how we got here last night.”

Sam looks sheepish. “I — I carried you, after you passed out in the library.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. “And? You wanna explain how we both ended up naked? Wait. Don’t answer that.”

But Sam ignores him. “We always sleep naked,” he says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. “You’re always complaining about how overheated you get otherwise.”

Dean gets a flash of Sam’s naked body, curled around him in sleep, and he feels himself flush. 

“And that’s all we did,” he clarifies. “Sleep.”

“Last night, yeah,” Sam says. “You weren’t really in any condition for anything else, after the spell. That thing really took it out of you.”

Dean blinks and rubs the back of his neck. “You’re gonna have to help me out here, Sam. My memories are pretty jumbled. You said there was a spell.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “My time-closet malfunctioned and started spitting out versions of me from other timelines...”

“Wait.” Dean puts his hand up. “ _That_ really happened? It wasn’t just a dream?”

“Yeah, it happened.” Sam clenches his jaw. “Somehow we veered off course, ended up in that timeline when we were supposed to be here.”

Dean shakes his head. “I hate time travel.”

“Well, technically, nobody actually time-traveled,” Sam says. “The timelines just spontaneously diverged.”

“Oh, excuse me, Professor, but it sounds like time-travel to us peons. And if this thing happened ‘spontaneously,’ don’t you think we should figure out why so it doesn’t happen again?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I should have said ‘unexplained spontaneous divergence.’ But my guess is, the time-closet was the catalyst. I should probably go check on it.”

“You do that,” Dean growls. “And while you’re out there, get me some goddamn coffee!”

Sam makes a face, but obeys. Sam’s been unusually solicitous since Dean got back. He shaved his beard when Dean told him he hated it. (He didn’t, he just didn’t like the reminder that he’d left Sam for so long). He found an awesome hunt for them on Halloween that almost made up for the fact that the bunker was crawling with eager-beaver hunters who kept calling Sam “chief.”

Sam’s been caring for Dean in the only ways he knows Dean will accept. Sam’s caring for Dean now because he knows what Dean’s been through, knows he’s traumatized after his possession. No one knows what it’s like to be possessed by a psychotic archangel as well as Sam does.

Dean wishes Sam had no idea what that was like. It’s not an experience Dean would wish on his worst enemy. Dean still has fantasies about traveling back in time to fix it, to ensure that Sam never suffers like that. Dean would give anything to save Sam from all of it,

Dean would suffer a hundred lifetimes of being possessed by Michael if it would save Sam from even a day of being possessed by Lucifer.

It occurs to him that the time-closet knew. It never allowed Dean to use it because it knew. It only let Sam travel through it because he knew Sam would never do something so stupid as to end the world to save his brother, however accidentally. The time closet knew Sam almost as well as Dean does.

And that’s when Dean decides he’s definitely losing it.

**//**//**

“It’s gone, Dean,” Sam announces when he gets back. Dean accepts the cup of strong, black coffee that Sam offers and frowns.

“What’s gone?”

“The closet. It’s like it was never there. There’s no hole in the wall, nothing. It’s just — gone.”

“So what does that mean, Genius? Huh? That thing’s been here at least as long as we have.”

“Or maybe never at all,” Sam shrugs. “Maybe in this timeline it never even existed in the first place.”

Dean’s head hurts. “So why do I remember it?”

Sam looks sheepish again. “That’s the memory spell,” he says. “I didn’t want us to forget the other timeline. It’s part of who we are. So I used an Enochian memory incantation. Wasn’t sure it would work, actually...”

“A memory spell,” Dean huffs. “So you’re saying we ended up with two sets of memories of two different timelines, like we did when Balthazar re-sunk the Titanic.”

“Right. At any rate, now that the closet’s gone, we should be safe from any more time slips.”

“Let’s hope so.” Dean shakes his head, takes a long sip of his coffee. “Do we know exactly when the timelines split?”

“Pretty sure it was before you said yes to Michael,” Sam ventures, flinching as he says it. It occurs to Dean, not for the first time, that Sam has suffered almost as much as Dean has during the past few weeks. Not only was he missing his brother, but Sam was reliving his own possession every time he thought about what Dean was going through.

Again, Sam’s suffering is infinitely greater than Dean’s. It’s just the way of the world, in any timeline. 

“So I’m not imagining it,” Dean suggests. “I remember rescuing Jack. I remember bringing him back here, closing the rift, trapping Michael and Lucifer in apocalypse world for good.”

“No.” Sam sighs. “You’re not imagining it. That’s what happened, in that other timeline.”

“But not here.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Here, Lucifer and Michael broke into our world. Lucifer took Jack’s grace, zapped us to that church in Maryland. You said yes to Michael to save your family.”

Dean has a feeling Sam always thinks of it that way. He doesn’t think “Dean said yes to Michael.” He thinks, “Dean said yes to Michael to save his family.” It’s like a slogan, or a mantra.

Sam, on the other hand, said yes to Lucifer to save the world. Again, Sam’s a better person than Dean. Dean would never do it any other way. He could never put the world ahead of Sam. That’s just the way he’s made.

“Then we killed Lucifer and Michael reneged on his deal. I remember that part.” Dean thinks for a moment, then adds, “I hate it here.”

Sam starts, raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I can see why you might prefer things the other way.”

“Damn straight. Bunker full of strangers, Michael in the wind. This place sucks.”

The sick thing is, he really means it. He remembers that other timeline. Things were good, or at least better. Until all those Sams started popping out of the time-machine, everything was fine there. They’d managed to close the rift to the other universe without losing anybody and life had gotten itself back to a semblance of normal. Sure, they didn’t save all those people over there, didn’t bring them back here where they’d be safe, but that was alternate-Bobby’s job. Mom had decided to stay with him, and that had hurt at first, but it had made sense, too, and Dean had a feeling he’d get used to it eventually. The main thing was, they’d got Jack back and trapped Lucifer over there where he was probably dead by now, and Michael was still there too, trapped forever with no possibility of escape.

Just before the Sams started falling out of the time-closet, Sam and Dean had been home alone, enjoying a little domestic R&R. Castiel was off with Jack on a road-trip, exploring the universe the way only angels can do. Sam and Dean had had the bunker to themselves again, the way it was supposed to be.

In that timeline, Sam and Dean had had each other, in every way.

Dean blushes involuntarily as the memories flood his mind and body, memories of Sam spread out naked on his bed, of Dean taking care of him in all the ways he loved most.

Only that isn’t the way things are in this timeline. Here in this universe, he and Sam have never crossed that line, although he’s pretty sure he’s thought about it. He’s pretty sure Sam has, too.

Yeah, things were definitely better in that other timeline.

“We need to get out of here,” Dean says as he finishes chugging his coffee. “Just get in the car and drive.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees. He takes a deep breath and rises wearily to his feet.

It’s too easy these days to guilt Sam into doing something he doesn’t really want to do. All Dean has to do is ask.

**//**//**

They make it to the garage without anyone noticing, which is the kind of miracle Dean hasn’t had much of lately.

It’s dark and raining outside, of course, but Dean doesn’t mind. He points the car toward Dodge City and settles back for a three-hour journey. Ever since they went there for a hunt last year, Dean’s wanted to go back. There’s a cheesy gunslinger wax museum and a cowboy-themed indoor mini-golf amusement center he’s been dying to visit. He can’t wait to sleep another night in the gunslinger motel where they stayed before, but this time they’ll be alone. No Cas, no Jack.

They’ve been on the road for barely an hour before Sam breaks their uncomfortable silence, just as Dean had known he would. Sam knows he can’t get anything serious out of his brother unless they’re in the car. It’s where they’ve always had their best conversations. It’s dark and quiet and they’re alone. It’s like a goddamn confessional, this car.

Sam clears his throat. “We should talk.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. “About?”

As if Dean ever had a chance.

Sam takes a deep breath. “We need to talk about how things were different in that other timeline. Between us. You know what I’m talking about, Dean,” he says, and Dean can hear his eye roll, even if he can’t see it because he’s keeping his eyes on the dark, rainy road ahead.

Dean considers feigning ignorance. He thinks about saying something like, “No, I got no idea what you’re talking about, Sammy,” but he doesn’t.

Sam’s suffered enough.

“Okay,” Dean nods. “So talk.”

Sam takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “Look, Dean, I know you’d like to forget that other timeline, and I get that. It’s easier to pretend none of those things happened.”

“Technically, they never did, right?” Dean glares at the dark, rainy road, daring it to argue.

“No, right, of course.” Sam shifts and fidgets in his seat, and Dean tries not to notice. “Technically., you’re right. But the thing is, we remember them, and that changes things. We’ve gained new understanding of things because of those memories. At least, _I_ have.”

Dean realizes too late that he probably should have denied the whole thing. He should have pretended not to have any memories of that other timeline at all.

But of course it’s too late now. Sam knows.

“And the thing is, I don’t regret anything,” Sam goes on, and Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him. He knows exactly what it looks like to be fixed by that gaze. Sam’s beautiful kaleidoscope eyes are full of sincerity. Hope. Dean just knows it without even having to look at him. “I don’t regret a thing, Dean. I never will.”

Dean can’t help rolling his eyes, shaking his head. “Sam.”

“I understand if you want to forget it. After everything you’ve been through with Michael, it’s a real clusterfuck to have all those memories of a life we never lived. I totally understand why you’d rather pretend it never happened.”

He can’t do that to Sam. Not after everything he’s been through. Not after everything Dean couldn’t do to save him.

Dean takes a deep breath. It’s now or never. “I remember everything, Sam,” he says.

He feels Sam’s eyes on him as he clears his throat. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” He realizes what he’s about to say a split second before he says it. “No regrets here, either.”

It’s something he can give Sam, this validation. It’s something he owes him, for all the extra suffering Sam’s endured. “I just need a little time, that’s all.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam breathes, and his relief feels like something tangible that Dean can reach out and grab hold of. “Of course, Dean. Totally understandable.”

“And I’m not sleeping with you in a bunker full of strangers,” Dean growls. The least he can do is set some boundaries. “While they’re in the bunker, you’re sleeping in your own room, capiche?”

“Yeah! Yeah, of course! Absolutely.”

The truth is, Dean needs his space in a way he’s never needed it before. Being possessed has given him a new-found appreciation for alone-time. He’s not sure he can handle Sam being plastered all over him the way he remembers in his other memories. He wants the bed to himself for a while, just until he gets his equilibrium back. Just until he’s absolutely sure he’s alone in his own head again.

He’s grateful to Sam for being there when he wakes up screaming, though. That never gets old.

They check into the cowboy motel around midnight, barely make it to the bed before they’re all over each other, clawing and biting and ripping each other’s clothing. It’s always been that way between them, Dean realizes. Stolen moments between the horrible reality of their lives. Desperate, panting interludes between one hell hole and the next.

But at least life allows them these respites. At least they get to carve out a moment’s solace in the midst of all the horror and suffering.

Dean drifts off afterwards, unsure whether he’s just had a momentous first time with his brother or a reunion.

Time travel’s a bitch.

**//**//**

He’s dreaming. He’s sure he’s dreaming this time, because he’s half-aware of lying in the cowboy motel bed with Sam. _His_ Sam.

Stanford Sam’s standing in the doorway, watching them.

“Hey.” Dean waits, just to see if Stanford Sam will disappear. He’s not real, Dean knows. This is a dream. Some weird reaction of his sleeping brain to the events of the past 24 hours.

When the apparition doesn’t fade, Dean huffs out a breath, rolls out of bed and reaches for his clothes. Maybe the mundane task of dressing will shake the ghost loose.

Stanford Sam’s still standing there when Dean finishes putting his boots on.

Damn, this dream is long and boring.

Stanford Sam watches him, drinking him in like a cool glass of water, and Dean knows that look. That’s the “I’ve been missing my brother something awful” look. Dean huffs out a breath and reaches for his jacket.

Of course, it’s his dad’s old leather jacket, the one Dean wore for years before losing it sometime after Sam went to Hell.

“Come on.”

Dean brushes past Stanford Sam, opens the door to the parking lot, the kid on his heels.

The diner is just across the parking lot, one of those all-night places that lets anybody order pancakes at midnight. This one serves drinks, and Dean orders a whiskey neat, thanking whoever Howard Johnson is for making sure his motel diners had a liquor license. And fish tanks.

Stanford Sam orders a glass of water and quarter-turns the glass at regular intervals with his long, tan fingers, making the ice melt so that his skin becomes wet and shiny.

“Something on your mind, Sammy?”

Sam’s mouth curls up in a half-smile, but he doesn’t look up. Not yet. It’s like he’s afraid to show Dean how much pleasure he’s getting from just sitting here. With Dean.

The waitress brings Dean’s apple pie ala mode and Dean grins appreciatively, wordlessly offering Sam the first bite.

Sam frowns with a sharp shake of his head and rolls his eyes. “I don’t want pie, Dean. I hate pie. Why are you always trying to make me eat?”

“You’re too skinny,” Dean says, and it’s true. The kid’s too thin. Not much muscle yet, not like later. “You should eat.”

Dean takes a bite of the pie, opens his mouth when Sam glances up. He almost chokes at the look of disgust on the kid’s face.

Priceless.

“Gross, Dean,” Sam complains, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. The kid’s cheeks are coloring, and it’s hard to tell whether his lips are curled in a grimace or a half-hidden smile.

Dean decides to go with the later. He eats the rest of the pie with exaggerated enthusiasm, aware of Sam glancing at him from under his bangs. Blushing.

“So why’d you drag me outta bed, Sam? Huh? Jealous?” Dean pushes the empty pie plate aside, reaches for his whiskey.

“What? No!” Sam starts, raising wide eyes to Dean before looking away again.

But Dean knows the kid. Knows he struck a chord.

“Well that’s just dumb, Sammy. He’s you. Fifteen years or so older, but definitely you.”

Sam shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“What? What don’t I understand?” Dean nods as the waitress arrives to take his empty plate away, offering a refill of his whiskey. He had almost forgotten what a pain in the ass young Sam could be. All the angsty teenage whining. All the moods. “Look, if you don’t want to tell me how hot I am, how you’re lusting after my every move and you’d like to shoot everybody I sleep with, then don’t. But don’t expect me to pretend you’re not jealous. That’s just stupid.”

Sam’s staring at him, mouth hanging open, frozen in shocked disbelief.

“What? Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong, Sam, cuz from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like jealousy to me.”

Dean takes another sip of his whiskey, shrugs and smirks and suddenly realizes he feels young again. It’s not just the jacket and the kid sitting across from him. He doesn’t feel the usual twinges in his knee or the crick in his neck.

“You’re an asshole,” Sam says.

“I love you too, Sammy.” Dean smirks, lifting an eyebrow.

“God, Dean.” Sam flushes pink. It’s adorable.

“No, I’m not him.” A sudden memory pierces Dean’s consciousness, sending him suddenly spinning out of the dream and into a memory. He’s in a dark alleyway, talking to Sister Jo, and she’s just called him ‘God’ and he’d taunted her.

It’s a Michael memory, Dean realizes, and his stomach swoops. His breathing stops.

“Dean? Dean, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

But it’s too late. He’s crashing. He’s deep under water, gasping for air, swimming like the fish in that goddamn tank, desperate for light because it’s so dark he can’t see.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice, urgent and filled with fear, pierces the darkness. It’s muffled by the water, by the pounding and rushing in Dean’s head as he runs out of air. He’s pretty sure Sam won’t make it in time to save him, but he’s got to stay conscious till the last possible moment. He’s got to _try_ , for Sam’s sake...

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes fly open. He’s back in the motel, naked and in bed and gasping for breath. Sam’s shaking him, looking down at him with that worried furrow of his brow in the light from the bedside lamp. He sighs with relief when he sees Dean’s awake, sits back against the headboard, runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

“It was just a dream.” Dean’s breathing slows but his heart’s still pounding. “Then it was a nightmare.”

“No shit.” Sam huffs out a breath. “You were flailing and flopping around like a dying fish.” He shakes his head as he realizes what he’s said, obviously remembering what Dean told him about how it felt to be possessed by Michael. “Sorry.”

“Maybe we should sleep in separate beds, till this thing blows over.”

Then Dean remembers. Sam’s been sleeping in his room since he got back, although not in the bed. Dean remembers waking up in the night to find Sam in the chair, dozing. Watching over him.

No wonder Sam isn’t getting any sleep.

“It’s not going to ‘blow over,’ Dean,” Sam says softly. “Recovering from possession isn’t something you just ‘get over.’”

“Right. I gotta pee.”

In the bathroom, Dean washes his face, avoiding his reflection as much as possible.. He runs a hot shower, lets the water sluice over him, forces himself not to panic as clouds of steam rise around him. He makes himself stay in the shower until his heart stops pounding, till he can endure the feel of the water cascading down his face and body without wanting to scream.

He’s not sure he’ll ever go swimming again.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Sam’s lying on his back with the light off. Dean can tell he’s awake, though. He can see Sam’s eyes glisten in the light filtering through the curtains from the parking lot.

“We’re gonna get through this,” Sam murmurs as Dean settles under the blanket next to him, not quite touching.

“We’re gonna find Michael and kill him,” Dean answers.

“Right.” But Dean knows that’s not what Sam meant. “What did you dream about? Before, I mean.”

 _Before the nightmare, you mean._ “You,” Dean says. “Stanford You. That kid in the hoodie with the long bangs. He was all cute and lost and missing his family. You know the one.”

“Yeah, I do.” Sam sucks in a breath, then lets it out slowly. “You know I was never really that innocent. I knew how I felt about you, for one thing. I could tell there was something really wrong with me, even then.”

“If I could go back and save you from all of it — Azazel, Lucifer, the whole thing — you know I would.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I know.”

“None of that stuff should have happened,” Dean insists. “You didn’t deserve to suffer like that. I never should have let that happen to you. I should have stopped it.”

“You let me go,” Sam reminds him. “You let me make my own decision about Lucifer. You trusted me. You let me do what I needed to do.”

Dean says nothing. He hates that memory.

Sam takes a deep breath. “And I’m here now, Dean. I survived. So will you.”

Dean’s quiet for another long moment, staring at the ceiling. Leave it to Sam to understand. Leave it to Sam to know exactly what Dean means.

“Michael’s bad. I mean, he’s evil. But he’s not Satan. He didn’t ride me for 180 fucking years.”

“Dean.” Sam props himself up on one elbow, turns toward his brother. “Don’t. What happened to you was terrible, any way you look at it. Don’t minimize it. Don’t dismiss it by comparing it to what happened to me.”

Dean turns his head, looks up into Sam’s familiar face, his chiseled features half in shadow.

“It’s gonna feel real good to run that son-of-a-bitch through with my archangel blade.”

Sam smiles. “Just like you killed Lucifer,” he murmurs.

“Just like _we_ killed Lucifer,” Dean corrects. He reaches up, tucks Sam’s long hair behind his ear, leaves his hand against Sam’s cheek.

Sam leans down, captures Dean’s mouth in a hungry kiss as he runs his hand down Dean’s chest and belly, reaching possessively between Dean’s legs to take what he wants.

They don’t talk much after that.

Maybe he’ll never be able to make up for all of Sam’s suffering. Maybe he’ll never completely understand it. But Sam’s here now. Sam’s alive and warm and in Dean’s arms.

Whatever comes next, Sam will be right there by Dean’s side.

Right where he belongs.


End file.
